Ship to Wreck
by The Purple Pineapple
Summary: Post season 4 finale. Olivia is seeing a therapist to try and make sense of things. Olivia-centered Olitz. Canon. Where I'm hoping season 5 will go.
1. Chapter 1

**Post season 4 finale. I watched an interview with Kerry where she said how Olivia needs a good therapist and there's so much truth in that that I thought it would be really interesting to explore it. A month or so after the "Whatever** ** _we_** **want." Olitz, but also, and I've been saying this for good two years, first and foremost I ship Olivia with a good therapist.**

* * *

She wonders whether there is a person somewhere, in some basement, collecting a paycheck for suggesting color-palette deals – buy a green and a white for your doctor's office and you get another one free, buy a blue and a white and you get free pictures of oceanscapes.

"What are you thinking about?" The questions irks her. Logically she knows it shouldn't. She is paying, and paying a great deal at that, so that this woman could pick her head, so that she would ask what she is thinking and then tell her how and why she shouldn't be thinking and feeling this way; she is paying a great deal for her expertise, yet this is the third sessions she has spent quietly inspecting the décor of the room. She's moved the coffee table since the last time.

"You've moved the coffee table." She says as she moves her eyes lazily along the wall one more time, before focusing it on the woman sitting across from her – all wide rim glasses and crisp white shirt peeking under the collar of her tweed jacket.

"You're paying me $350 an hour to inspect my décor?" She leans forward in her seat, her notebook resting on her knees, closed, a silver pen lodged in the middle.

"There are still dents in the carpet, which means you've done it quite recently," she points her hand to the corner with the coffee table, indicating the four almost-invisible dents, "but the table is close to its original position which means you weren't intending to move it, which means someone must have spilled something, except you never offer drinks, or food here, so…" She trails off, making the implication clear, no need to ask.

The therapist leans back in her chair, apparently unfazed, and presses her glasses further up her nose, "So you never shut off?"

She's taken aback, this is not the answer she's been expecting, "Excuse me?" It is her turn now, to lean forward in her chair, hands folded in her lap, her left hand playing with the ring on her index finger.

"You seem unable to switch off." The doctor repeats slowly, "For three weeks you have been coming into my office sitting here silently. At first I thought maybe you just needed the quiet, maybe you were paying me to give you a place where you can sit quietly, isolated from the world for an hour, but that's not it, is it? Because you don't do quiet, you don't do down time. The first week you've inspected my entire library, and mentally re-arranged it. Last week you were focused on my dry-cleaning and my desk, especially my family photos, and this week, you've found the coffee-table fascinating. You've spent the last three sessions trying to figure out why I've slept in my office and now that you know I'm having an affair, I feel like it might be time to move on, and maybe, if you're feeling up for it, focus your impressive deductive abilities on some introspective self-analysis."

"Isn't introspective self-analysis an oxymoron?" She says it to try and cover up her shock. She is Olivia Pope, she doesn't get shocked, or surprised. She is a good, a great, judge of character, she anticipates things like this, she can read people and situations, and she read her, she read her and she didn't realize she was capable of this, she read her and she underestimated her, and now she's trying to buy herself some time by playing semantics. "I mean," she leans back to try and seem casual, "introspection, implies looking inward, to the self."

"With most people it does." The woman is looking straight into her eyes, the intensity of her stare is unnerving, "I am not sure it does with you." And with that she falls silent.

"How come?"

"Well," she sounds way too self-assured and confident. It bothers Olivia, this is how _she_ is supposed to sound, this _is_ how she sounds with her clients. How did she become the client? "You're always in control, and people who are always in control tend to be masters of deflection. They identify with the world, and so explain the self in terms of everyone and everything else – you're the boss, the fixer, and most-wanted woman in DC – this is not just how you are seen, it is also how you insist on seeing yourself – you perceive yourself through how other people perceive you."

"I am _not_ always in control." She needs to discredit this line of reasoning at its very beginning, nip it in the bud.

"OK," the doctor smiles deliberately, "when was the last time you were not in control?"

 _"Take off your clothes." He whispers it into her ear, his warm breath tickling the skin on her neck. She bites her lip as she steps back. Through hooded eyelids she looks at his chest, then slowly inspects his shoulders, the firm lines of his jaw, his lips and the way he licks them, his eyes – glued on her. She shivers. She smiles. It is all too familiar, they are re-writing a memory, re-writing their own beginning._

 _She slips her cardigan off and lets it drop to the floor. She takes a step back, towards the bed. He loosens his tie with his left hand. The silk of her blouse feels cool against her heated skin. She cocks her head to the side and smiles, before unbuttoning her dark slacks. She pulls the zipper down and they slip down her legs. She is almost bare, but she does not feel vulnerable. She feels seen, she feels centered, she feels at home in her own body for the first time in weeks. Unlike the first time, she does not blush, she does not look down, she looks into his eyes. She_ watches _him, the way he watches her; she sees him, she enjoys him. She lets herself enjoy him._

 _"Lie down." And she does. He kicks his shoes off and takes a step towards her. He pulls his tie off over his head. She inhales, sharply, audibly, it sounds like a gasp and he smiles, smirks. He takes another step, unbuttons the top three buttons of his shirt. He takes his cufflinks out of his cuffs. He drops them in his pants pocket slowly, never taking his eyes off of her body – she can feel him undressing the layers she has spent years building, adding, fortifying; she can feel his eyes find their way under her skin. He rolls up his sleeves. Slowly, deliberately, letting his fingers graze the wiry hair on his forearms. This is foreplay and they both know it, they know that each move is a way to arouse, a way to awaken their senses, all their senses, it is a way to bring about their complete presence._

 _He kneels._

 _He kneels before her as if he were in a temple – slowly, each movement laden with significance. One knee on the carpeted floor, then the other, his movements almost silent, but for the ruffling of clothes. He touches her knee with his finger and it feels as if her skin is on fire. She needs more, she needs his skin against hers, his flesh against her flesh, the sweat, the shared breaths – she needs the unison, the carnality of it, the mindlessness of it. She needs to be overtaken by instinct._

 _He traces his fingers up her legs, until he reaches the edge of her underwear. She is anticipation. She is neurons firing signals at the speed of light; she is hyper-awareness of her every skin-cell, of every nerve ending in her body._

 _"Lift for me Livvy." And she does. She feels the lace of her underwear slide down her legs. Slowly, tortuously slowly. His fingers absent from her skin – she knows he is careful not to touch her. This is_ his _way – slow, deliberate, selfless – a dance of movements, of looks, of words whispered into her skin._

 _Her underwear falls on the floor without a sound. She opens her legs wider. He kisses the inside of her knee, and it feels like she is melting into him, disappearing into the single spot upon which he lay his lips. He kisses her again, and again, and each time it is a small death and a rebirth in a different place. He pulls her closer to the edge of the bed. She opens her thighs wider. He hooks them over his shoulders. He blows hot air, and she shivers at the way it feels against her moisture._

 _He kisses, and sucks and licks, and she disappears, and becomes, all at once. She feels no guilt that this is the White House and she is in his marital bed, or that he is still a married man. No, she no longer feels guilt about the way she feels. No more guilt. She just feels his teeth on the inside of her thigh, and his fingers deep inside her – she feels good, she feels whole and almost-but-could-it-be-happy? She feels the tension building in her core, she feels his grip on her hips, she feels his scalp under his fingers – but she does not feel guilt. She feels the universe exploding, and she feels the aftershocks, and the quake of her thighs and the clench of her stomach. She feels it all. She feels her need for him. He is undressing. He is hovering above her. He is kissing her, and she can taste herself. But that's the thing, she tastes different on his lips, than on any other man's she's ever been with. She sucks on his tongue, but then he's turning her around, he is biting on her shoulder as he teases her entrance. And all her control is gone, all her composure and it's all instinct, it is_ knowing _his body and her own, and what feels good, and god it's so easy with them,_ this _is so easy with them._

She can feel the therapist's eyes on her lips, and she bites into her own smile. "The last time…"

"You were not in control?" The woman says with a smirk. It unnerves Olivia, it is almost as if she can read her mind, and that is _not_ what she wants, no – she still has too many secrets, too many dark days and dark stories, too many things no one is to ever find out.

And then she blurts out, "I put my father in jail."

The therapist does not look taken aback. "That is the last time you felt out of control?"

"No," she says as she looks out the window, "That is the first time in a really long time, maybe even since I can remember, that I felt fully in control of my life."

"And what did you do with that power?"

The sun is about to set. It has colored the Capitol Dome orange. It makes her think of him, the orange juice, and the way she felt whole three weeks ago. How did it all go so wrong?

"I ran."


	2. Chapter 2

_"Do you ever worry we'll… evaporate?" She isn't sure if he's still awake. Maybe, maybe that's why she dares ask. The room is dark. They are in bed, limbs intertwined, her head is resting on his chest._

 _"What do you mean?" He wraps his arm tighter around her, letting his hand rest on her midsection._

 _She loops her fingers through his, "The intensity, I mean, what if we were_ so _in love, because we couldn't be together?" She runs her free hand up and down his chest. She stares at the pattern her fingers are making on his chest. She can see goosebumps forming on his skin, under the remnants of moonlight._

 _"No." She waits for a moment, but he is quiet. His arm around her suddenly feels heavy._

 _"No?" She looks up at him, her hand on his chest stilling._

 _"What more would you like me to say?" He pulls his arm from under her and starts to get up. He turns on the lamp on the bedside table. A soft gold light bathes the room. She blinks a few times, giving her tired eyes a chance to adjust._

 _"Something more than no." She sounds angry. She doesn't mean to. "I'm sharing my thoughts and fears here and you're shutting me down."_

 _"Oh, come on Olivia." His voice is rising as he get up and pulls a white t-shirt over his head. "You're not sharing anything. This is the emotional equivalent of you informing me that you've decided we're done."_

 _"What?" She is getting up now, as well. "That's not-"_

 _"I have told you, time and time again that I love you, and want to be with you, want to marry you and have babies with you. I have told you over and over that this is more than sex and more than stolen moments. But you never believed me. And every time I've tried to give it all up and make this," he motions between them, "work, us work, you've ran. Every. Single. Time."_

 _"I haven't." She says weakly._

 _"You have. You've always found a way for us not to be together. Either the election, or the presidency, or the island expedition with Jake, but every single time, you've found a way to leave me. So, I guess, this is right on queue and you've decided this is a reason we won't work this time." He finishes buttoning his shirt up. "I'll be in the Oval. Forgive me for not wanting to watch you leave… again."_

 _He turns around on his heel and heads to the door._

 _"Stop!" The tone of her voice, the sharpness, the force, surprises her as much as it surprises him. "Stop walking right now!" He does, but he doesn't turn around._

 _"I'm sorry." She inhales sharply, and he turns around. He is standing in the shadow, behind the lamp, but she can still see the storm raging in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I've never said it, I'm not… I'm not very good at apologies. I am sorry for leaving you, I am sorry about bailing, I am sorry. It… It had a lot to do with my father, my inability to… it had a lot to with him. And Mellie and you, you were married and I just… I'm sorry. Jake… he was there, he was available, he could be with me, he was just… there, and that, I needed that. It wasn't love, or at least not the kind of love we have, but I did, I did care about him. I still do Fitz. And that will probably never change. But when I came here tonight and said whatever_ we _want happens, I meant it. I want us," she motions her hand between them, "this, to work. I want this – long term. Vermont and all."_

 _"You hurt me." He says in a whisper so low anyone else would have mistaken it for a ruffle of the curtains._

 _"I know." She walks over to him. "I never meant to." She places her hands on his chest slowly. She props herself on her toes and kisses his chin with a small smile. She unbuttons the top button of his shirt. She waits for a moment, and then unbuttons another. He does not stop her. He places his hands low on her back and leans his forehead against hers._

 _"I don't think we'll evaporate." She stills._

 _"You don't?" Her voice sounds shaky. She wishes it didn't. She wishes she could be as certain as he is, that she could have been as certain as he has always been. But no, that is not her, she doesn't deal in certainty – she deals in chances, and contingencies, she plans for failure and anticipates it. That is just who she is._

 _"No." He kisses her temple. "We," he pauses, as if trying to find the right words, trying to find the right tone to say it, because sometimes with them, things get lost, meanings get twisted and turned around and become something unfamiliar; with them, words are sometimes the enemy, "We are not easy. We have never been easy. We've been wonderful, and I've loved every second of it, but we've also been exhausting, and impossible and maddening. We are not easy. And that isn't because of your father, or Cy, or Mellie, it's because you're stubborn and practical, and I'm stubborn and romantic, and you have these impossible standards and expectations and I have a fear of failure and we just… we push each other, and that is what makes us great, but that is also what drives us apart and makes us insane. I love you Olivia, I love you in ways I never fathomed possible, but sometimes, god sometimes you also drive me mad. I love you so much, but sometimes you just make it so damn hard." She is perfectly still, for a moment she is unsure if she has forgotten how to breathe. "There is too much of us Liv, too much of us, we, our love is too thick to evaporate."_

 _"OK." She leans into his chest, her arms wrapping around his muscular back._

 _"OK?"_

 _"What more would you like me to say?" She replies with a small smile, as she steps back. He grabs her arm and pulls her forward, lifting her up._

 _"See… this is what I'm talking about… Impossible." And he kisses her in that way that makes her forget that there are still lives going on outside – people loving and dying and saving and losing; he kisses her in a way that makes her forget everything but them._

The woman clears her throat.

"You said you ran." She plays with the tip of her silver pen. "The last time, before the end of our session, you said you ran. And then you _had_ to rush off."

"You don't take notes."

"I'm sorry?" He looks at her, half-amused, half-intrigued.

"You don't take any notes. When we-I am speaking, you don't write anything down. And you have, well I assume you have quite a few clients every week, so I'm just wondering, how do you keep it all in your head? All the details."

"You know they're not on my computer." She says with a smile that widens at Olivia's apparent discomfort. "I mean I'm assuming. If I were you, and from all I've heard about you. You tried to hack into my computer and see if you could find files on my clients. It was all a part of the vetting process, right? Olivia Pope would not just come talk to someone unless she was absolutely _certain_ that there could be no leaks."

'There was nothing on your computer, emails, or the cloud. And you don't actually write anything in that notebook on your lap, so I'm just wondering how…"

"Olivia, in this office, you are just like any other client. What you tell me _is_ confidential. And a part of that is not letting you know how I keep your information safe."

"OK." She leans back in her chair. She is starting to like this woman, against her better judgment. She is, maybe, even starting to admire her. Maybe.

"So, are we talking about why you ran, or is today going to be another one of your quite sessions, as you ponder the beauty of sunsets in DC?"

And that's it, she's done liking her. Respect though, somewhere deep within her, respect swells.

"My mother died when I was 12. We were close. She was a motherly type – all cookies and baking and popcorn puffs. Packed lunches with kiddie napkins and all of that. She knew, she paid attention to me is what I'm saying. I felt… seen. And she died. It was sudden and, just gone." She respects her, admires her, but she does not completely trust her, not yet anyway. So she gets a PG13 version of her family history. "My dad, he was never really the emotional type, at least not in the warm specter of emotions, he was never the one to pay attention to the little things, he found it all… frivolous. I was always provided for, schools and trips and financial security, intellectual challenges. I was always provided for, and then I provided for myself. But I was never cared for, I was never… taken care of. Not since I was 12. He never took care of me, and somehow I convinced myself that that was OK, that that was the way the world was supposed to be, that emotional strength was evidenced by numbness. And it was never really an issue. I was fine, I was always fine, I just was, until he… showed up. And suddenly, there was more to life than being fine." She pauses, lets her own words sink into her skin, seep back into her blood stream. She lets herself process what she said. It was unexpected, she, she planned to tell the woman she wasn't going to be coming anymore, that there was no point. "He changed me. He made me need more. He made me needy. He made me weak."

She looks at the woman seated across from her, hyper-aware of the unsettling silence, the ticking of the clock on the desk the only source of movement in the room.

"What do you want?" Olivia chuckles, burying her head in her hands. "What's so funny about that?" The woman asks as she stands up. She pulls her white shirt down, straightening the front.

"Nothing… just, the irony of it, I guess. It's what I always ask my clients."

'Then you know that that is where we start." The woman replies, as she leans against her desk, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I don't know what I want."

"Then we're done." She says as she turns around, and starts arranging the clutter on the windowsill.

"Excuse me?" She is rising now, too. Her shoes feel too tight on her feet, her body suddenly too heavy.

"There is no point in you coming here unless you know why you're doing it." The woman turns around slowly. "I am good at what I do Olivia. I am excellent. But you know that already, it's why you picked me. You know that I can help you, you know I can give you answers, but you've also helped enough people to know that I can't give you answers if you don't have questions; I can't help you unless you have a goal; I can't fix you, unless you know what's broken, what part of you you'd like to change. So unless you're willing to do that, to look long and hard inside yourself and give me some answers, there's no point in you coming here."

She grabs her jacket from the armchair and puts it on quickly. She takes her purse, and reaches for her gloves. Her ring catches on the zipper. She tugs, tugs, then lets out an exasperated sigh. The woman crosses the room to where she's standing and stills her hands.

"Maybe you should slip that ring off your finger." She says quietly, looking into her eyes. Of course. She pulls the ring off, shaking her hand in frustration. The woman twists it and unhooks it from the zipper. She hands it back to her with a small smile. "You know, sometimes, you need to let go for a moment, in order to get something back."

She slips the ring back on her finger. She plays with it for a moment, turning it a few times around her finger. _Sweet baby._ "He asked me to marry him." She says, looking at the ring. "I want to be able to say yes and mean it."

The woman looks up at her and nods her head. "OK." She smiles. "That's a start."

She walks over to her chair, and sits down. Olivia follows, slipping her off-white jacket off. "Tell me how you met."

And she does. She begins to trust.


End file.
